Feeding my bottomless pit of a baby was making me late to meet my lovely friend so I wrenched him from the boob and threw him, his sister and the dog into the car and with the children wailing furiously we headed for the park.
Realising I had no cash I swung into our local parade of shops to use the cash machine, scraping the side of my car all down the side of a nice new looking car parked near the bakery. Bugger. A very nice man came out of the bakery and laid claim to the newly scraped car.
Half way through swapping details I noticed that I had completely failed to refasten my (black) top, and was cheerfully flashing my (fuscia pink) bra to all and sundry. Bugger.
I did up my top and got back into my car, managing to drive a few yards before remembering I still had no cash. Balls.
I edged back into my space and raced to the cash machine, took out £30, left it in the machine, put my card back in my wallet and ran back to my car. Drove a few yards before realising what I'd done. Bugger.
Got to the park. Bottomless pit baby needed feeding again. Rummaged around and discovered that not only had I failed to fasten my top earlier but I had also failed to fasten my bra. I had not been flashing bra at the nice man. I had been flashing boob. Perhaps that was why he was so nice.
Bugger.
I arrived a bit late to the park today and caught up with my friends at the duck pond. The toddlers were racing about, the ducks were quacking satisfactorily, the sun was shining, I parked my newborn next to the two others, all in their trendy prams in the shade. A gentle breeze wafted, the smell of coconut cream dappled about, the water glinted, the birds sang and all would have been idyllic...
... if it weren't for some idiot dog, hooning about like a hoodlum, scattering the ducks, stirring up the boggy mud, careering past the toddlers and liberally glopping splatters of mud wherever it yomped.
"WHO THE HELL DOES THAT DOG BELONG TO??" Thundered H.
H is not in my usual group of friends. She is a friend of a friend. I have met her lots of time but don't like her much know her as well as I know everyone else.
"I DON'T KNOW!" I thundered back, equally outraged, "BUT WHOEVER IS DOES BELONG TO SHOULD JOLLY WELL BE KEEPING IT UNDER BETTER CONTROL!!"
"Tsk!!" I added, for good measure, as my friends tripped over their feet in their rush to let H know to ABORT ABORT, the idiot hoodlum dog is Dolly who belongs to Norah who is being a twat.
I don't suppose that H adores me either.
Once the excitement of a new baby brother wore off and the full implications of a 100% increase in the number of children in this family started to sink in, Sprog got the royal hump. You can't blame her.
She tried ignoring him, perhaps in the hope that he would go away. He didn't. So she ignored me instead. Now she is ignoring her father, much to his distress.
All this ignorning, whilst satisfyingly disruptive to family life, didn't seem to be having the desired effect, so she took to clouting her brother soundly about the head. This made her parents pleasingly unhappy, however it still didn't persuade them to get rid of "that baby" as she calls him. Clearly she needed to step things up a notch.
Asking her what she would like on her toast for lunch today elicited the response, "that baby on toast".
I clarified, "You want to eat your brother?"
"Yes. On toast."
Then, as an afterthought,
"Little brothers on toast is YUMMY!!!"
Sprog: Bye bye Mummy
Me: Bye bye Sprog. Where are you going?
Sprog: My going shopping.
Me: I see and what are you going to buy?
Sprog: [deep thought] ... Chicken, and shoes. Bye bye Mummy.
There are strict rules in my family governing how you must impart bad news on the phone. You must not phone up and say "Hello, it's me, I'm afraid I have some bad news..." because then the person you have phoned will imagine that the entire family has been unexpectedly blown up, and will be furious and tearful and relieved when you tell them that the dog has died, and then they'll be cross with you that they are glad that the dog has died. You have to say "Hello, it's me, EVERYONE IS FINE AND THERE IS NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT, but [insert bad news of choice]..." You're not even allowed to sound sad in your initial "Hello, it's me..." because the person you have phoned will hear from your tone of voice that something bad has happened, and will assume that you're about to tell them that the entire faimly has been unexpectedly blown up.
I remember once a hapless German chap arriving at our door clutching my father's spectacles, his best pen, his binoculars and a bloodstained bird book. He put his hand tenderly on my mother's shoulder and said "I'm afraid zere has been an accident" - when it turned out that my father was alive and well and limping about the local hospital furiously demanding to know which bastard had stolen his bird book, I honestly thought that there would be an 'accident' and that it would not end well for the terrified German who cowered in terror as my mother berrated him in English, German and, for some reason, French, about the ettiquette of imparting bad news.
Thus, yesterday, Mr Splog was summoned out of a meeting to take a phone call. It was me on the phone.
"EVERYTHING'S FINE!!!" I shrieked manically, "REALLY, THERE'S ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT. JUST A LITTLE THING HAS HAPPENED, AND IT'S ABSOLUTELY FINE AND THERE'S NO NEED TO PANIC!!
"SPROG'S JUST HAD A LITTLE BIT OF AN ACCIDENT AND THERE'S RATHER A LOT OF BLOOD SO I'M JUST POPPING HER DOWN TO A&E, BUT IT'S FIIIIINE! REALLY FINE!!" I continued, my hysterical sobs rather detracting from the breezy reassurances...
We saw a nurse who sent us to a doctor, who sent us to another hospital, which put her on the childrens' ward and sent up a paediatrician, who sent us to the maxilofacial unit, and we were finally advised that they wanted to put her under general anesthetic to sew her up.
Mr Splog had oddly not felt reassured enough my my calming phonecall to return to his meeting, and had joined us somewhere between the first hospital and the childrens' ward. This was very good because Baby Sherbert was not allowed in the operating theater so I stayed out in the corridore with Sherb while Mr S went in with Sprog. He held her on his knee while they put her to sleep. She went all floppy and he put her on the bed and came out to find me and have a cry and a sandwich.
15 minutes, they said. These minutes were the longest 15 minutes of my life. We paced the corridore. We made brief, watery eye contact with the other parents who paced their own routes up and down. After several gazillion years, they called us.
Six stitches in her lip. The gums will heal themselves. They are optimistic that she will keep all of her teeth.
She looks a little gory, but they have done a very neat job and the scar will barely be noticable.
Clearly deciding that her parents could take a little more, Sprog proceeded to sleep for two hours post op with her eyes open. She is nothing if not thorough.
Mr Splog has gone back to work and I am in sole charge of TWO WHOLE CHILDREN. If we're all still in three pieces at 4.00 Friday afternoon that counts as a win.
Sprog got the memo advising what is expected of her now that she's two, and she decided to get the ball rolling with a full-on, bells and whistles, screaming, sobbing, gulping, choking, raging tantrum at Tesco this morning. It was impressive stuff. She kept it up for nearly 15 minutes.
I imagine being two must be a bit like PMT - rock hard rage alternating with pitiful dispair with no real reason for either. And at two you don't even have the ability to articulate how you feel. Or the ability to think sod it, and open a bottle of gin wine.
I remained calm, serene even, even when her flailing and howling woke her brother who joined in the chorus. I'd not really heard Sherby cry before. I can already see big differences between them. Sprog was born howling wih fury at the indignity of it all, and has been trying to organise the world to her liking ever since. Sherbert seems altogether more laid back about everything. Perhaps he's just casing the joint and planning his move?
I'm not sure quite how it happened so fast, but my little girl is 2.
She had a party with a bouncy castle and balloons and pink cake and icecream and swarms of menacing 2-year-olds rampaging around the garden in deceptively adorable party frocks.
She was asleep when the men came to deflate the bouncy castle and take it away. Mr S and I didn't mention anything when she woke up, and were thus chilled by a scream some 45 minutes later;
WHERE MY BOUNCY TASTLE??????
We explained that the bouncy castle had come for the party and had gone away now, but if we were lucky maybe it would come back next birthday.
NO, she declared simply and stormed off to the garden where she spent a good 10 minutes examining the grass where the castle had stood, gesticulating wildly and muttering to herself,
Where my tastle? Where it gone? My bouncy tastle! Gone! Where???!!
As if hoping that by peering hard enough at the ground she might find it hiding behind a flattened blade of grass.
Favourite things include: Boobie. Other boobie.
Dislikes emerging: When that silly woman takes the boobies away.
When faced with the prospect of No Boobie, he remains optimistic and simply opens his mouth wide and lunges about in the hope that he might fix upon a passing boobie in need of his attention.
And here's one for any parents of boys who may be reading:
Things I never expected to hear myself say: "Darling? How the hell do you get meconium off a scrotum?" (Mr S claims not to know, on the reasonable grounds that he doesn't poo on his.)
Sprog: [Burps loudly]
Sprog: I do a burp!!!
Me: Mmmm.
Sprog: I do a BIG burp!!
Me: Yes. And what do you say when you do a burp?
Sprog: Um...... BRURRRRRRGH?
Somewhat belatedly, Mr Splog and I have realised that everything child-related in the house belongs quite categorically to Sprog. All of her toys and books belong to her of course, plus all of Mr Splog's and my old toys, all of our old teddies, all of my old dolls, the bedding with rainbows on, the brightly coloured plastic bowls, the slide in the garden.... I must resolve this or face some tough questioning from Sherbert at some point in the future.
To give you an idea how much the average two-year-old likes sharing, imagine asking a half starved bear with a headache to give you a bite of the only jam sandwich in a 70 mile radius.
The most oft-repeated phrases in the Splog household are currently:
"MINE!"
"I want it"
"Give me"
"NOT YOURS MUMMY!"
"Not Daddy have it"
"Dat's mine, dat's yours. Not sharing." (They might be aquisitous and self serving but toddlers also have a scrupulous sense of what's fair).
Also, we never got around to putting away the baby toys that Sprog has grown out of, so they are still in circulation in her toy box.
Delving into said toy box over the weekend, Sprog emerged with a baby rattle that hadn't seen the light of day for many months.
"What dis Mummy?"
Ahhh, I said, sensing an opportunity, that's a rattle for little babies to play with.
Sprog rattled it.
It's not much fun for big girls, is it? I continued determinedly. It's really only fun for babies. Big girls have much more exciting toys than that. (Oh yes, all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, me).
OH! I exclaimed, an idea just occurring to me, do you know who might like to play with that rattle? I bet Baby Sherbert would like to play with that rattle!
Sprog looked unconvinced.
I think Baby Sherbert would LOVE to play with that rattle. I bet you're going to be ever such a kind girl and share your toys with Baby Sherbert, aren't you!
Sprog looked doubtful.
And Mummy is ever so proud of you when you are kind and share toys. I know you can do lovely sharing. How lovely to share your toys with Baby Sherbert, and maybe even GIVE Baby Sherbert your baby toys?!!! (At this point I'm so jolly and high pitched that only dogs and bats can hear me. My grin is giving me face ache and my eyebrows are hovering above the house somewhere).
Sprog sighed and looked unsure.
I turned the grin up a bit and nodded, I hope not too desperately.
With a resigned look, she shrugged and brought the rattle over. She tugged up my jumper and thrust the rattle against my belly, tucking my jumper down over it to hold it there. She stood back, gave me a pitying look and wandered off to play with something more interesting.
Since that conversation she has obviously decided to disregard her mother's failing grip on reality, and has embraced the idea of sharing with Baby Sherbert.
Other things I have discovered up my top include:
More baby rattles,
A pair of booties,
Some stickers,
Three hair slides
A grape
An inflatable Pinky Ponk.
I know you probably weren't all that happy about it, but that didn't half make me smile .... read more
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